“Good bird! Hey, who are you and what are you doing on my damned boat?”
“Por favor. Can you to remove him from me?”
“I’ll think about it. Why are you on my boat?”
“I am from Arturo.” He tried to reach in his pocket, but was nailed for his trouble.
“Arturo? Arturo who?”
“Señor Arturo Oberto. He sees this animal on television and wish to purchase him.”
“As in, Oh Boy! Oberto, Oberto?”
“Si. I have the letter.”
“Trouble, get over here and leave the man alone.” I turned to the crowd that gathered on the dock. “Everything’s all right. Sorry for all the racket.”
People began to drift off as I helped the man up. He eyed Trouble warily, dug in his front pocket and produced a piece of paper. Stretching his arm as far as it would go while leaning away, he handed me a note and snatched his hand from harm’s way.
Just for fun, Trouble made a little feint in his direction, which made the man jump back. “Quit it, Trouble. This man is your dream come true. Your ship has come in. Seems Mr. Art Oberto, who obviously saw your television debut on CNN, has a place near here and he sent this nice man to buy you. Think of it. Unlimited jerky for-ever.”
I turned to the cringing man. “Mr. Oberto doesn’t care to buy me as well, by any chance?”
“¿Mande?”
“Never mind. Please, sit down, I’ll be right back.”
I felt a little guilty when Trouble went passively into his cage, never guessing that I was, quite literally, selling him down the river. “It’s for your own good, honest,” I said, but I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince, him or me. I gathered up some goodies for his road trip, covered his cage, and took it outside. Quickly jotting down Trouble’s idiosyncratic eating habits, his desire for a daily warm shower, and a warning as to his racist tendencies, I handed the man the list.
“Here you go. Whatever you do, do not open this cage, intiendes?”
He didn’t need any convincing there. “Oh, sí, do not worry, I will not to open the cage. How much?”
“At least a few days.”
“¿Mande?”
“Keep him in cage. Tres, cinco dias.” I figured three to five days would give me time to get the hell out of Mexico.
“Si, I understand. How much pesos?”
I could hear Trouble mumbling contentedly, as he always did before he went to sleep.
“Thirty pieces of silver?”
“¿Mande?”
“Just joking. No money. Here,” I turned the letter over and scribbled on the back, “give this to Señor Oberto.”
“Gracias. Muchas gracias, señora, y que vaya bein.”
“Same to you. I guess.”
As I watched them leave, I teared up a little, but this is what I wanted, right? Trouble has a good home with lots of jerky, and I’m as free as, well, a bird.
Twice during the night I awakened to the flutter of wings, but it turned out to be a great blue heron instead of the great gray Trouble.
I missed him.
To my complete and utter surprise, I crossed the sea without a single incident.
After oversleeping, I was underway by five, overtook Smith around noon. I waived gaily as I passed, noting that he looked grouchy and tired, and I figured he still had a good thirteen miles to go. So much for his hoped for five knots; he was barely making four.
I was back in my slip by one, and helped Smith with his lines much later. He and Maggie joined me for a rum and coke—she takes hers with ice, hold the rum, hold the coke—then, worn out, the sailor headed for his bunk. I didn’t ask how often he’d set his alarm the night before, but it was obvious that only one of us had a restful night.
Feeling mightily pleased with myself for my uneventful crossing, I deigned to call Jenks and brag a little, but his cool reception led to a strained conversation that I was in no mood to lighten up. It was only after I hung up that I wished I’d been less defensive when he expressed relief that I was back in my slip.
How dare he worry about me.
Chapter 24
I wrote a wrap-up report for the Trob, to which I planned to attach a grossly inflated invoice. Knowing he would question it line by line, it was a padding game we played, even though we both knew where we’d end up.
Trouble, safe and sound at Rancho Oberto, was no longer a reason to linger in Mexico, and with my silly self the possible subject of a search by at least three bad guys and the Budget rental police, my host country was growing a mite unwelcoming.
And I was lonely. Yes, there were cruiser parties almost every night, and yes, I did lots of busy boat work and supervised even more, and yes, I spent hours on the computer working, but I was still alone. Jan was diving for treasure with Chino, Jenks was in Kuwait with his brother, Trouble was, according to phoned-in progress reports from Rancho Oberto, in Baja, happily munching unlimited jerky, and Mom and Dad were RV-ing somewhere in Canada.
My stateside project wasn’t due to get started until after the first of the year, so what I needed was a new project—somewhere besides Mexico, and preferably muy pronto—before I reverted to type and slid into a Tequila stupor. Jimmy Buffett knows of what he sings when he talks about wasting away in Margaritaville.
Before I fell into a permanent blue funk, I picked up the phone. “Yo Trob, I need a job.”
“I gave you a job.”
“I need another.”
“Finish the one you have.”
“You’ll have the whole enchilada tomorrow.”
“I thought you had another deal lined up.”
“I do, but not until after Christmas.”
“I’ll put feelers out. When will you be back up here.”
“Soon. Say, has Allison mentioned my car lately?”
“You better talk to her, she’s your lawyer.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
My so-called lawyer, Allison, barely gave me a chance to say hello before launching into a quite un-lawyerly diatribe. “Hetta, you can’t hide out south of the border forever. If you don’t start returning my damned calls, I’m going to come down there and drag your skanky butt back here myself.
“One more call from the OPD and I’m telling them you are no longer my client. They only want to talk to you, not arrest you. They know you had nothing to do with that body in your car.”
“Okay, okay. I’ve been a little busy. And I am coming home. I did call them and they said they would release the car to you.”
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly?”
“They let me take it to the mechanic, but he won’t release it onto the street until he gets an okay from Norquist. And Norquist wants to talk to you again.”
“What now? Doesn’t he have better things to do?”
“His life is full of boring stuff, like murders and mayhem. He needs a little excitement.”
“Har har. He’d be bored with what I’ve been up to.”
“Liar. Jan called.”
“Oh.”
“Car theft? Consorting with drug runners? Attempted vehicular manslaughter? Have I missed anything?”
“I sold my bird down the tubes.”
“Save that one for when you get home. And when will that be?”
“Real soon, I promise.”
“They running you out of the country?”
“Something like that. How much for my car?”
“Three grand.”
“What? The whole car isn’t worth that much.”
“You said to fix it, I had it fixed.”
“I’m going to revise my invoice to your hubby. Looks like I’m going to need a cash influx.”
“Plus two more grand for the deductible on that rental car you blew up in Baja.”
“Uh, car?”
“Yes, car. As in a Budget rental, wrecked, burned and abandoned in the Baja?”
“Oh, that rental car. It was rented on Jan's credit card.
> “You signed the agreement. ”
“How does Jan know how much the deductible is already?”
“She may not. The police in Baja called the OPD since her, and your, address of record is in Oakland. And believe me, when your name crops up, the local cops listen. Especially Norquist.”
Damn. I knew I should have called Budget and reported the car fire. Evidently they found out on their own.
“Not only that, the cops in Loreto thought maybe you two had died in the fire, and that caused quite a stir. When they found no bones, they searched the desert. In other words, your crass irresponsibility caused everyone a great deal of time and expense.”
“Sorry, but I—”
“Too late. Jan explained how the car overheated and caught on fire, so what was the big deal reporting the loss?” Bless Jan’s little lying heart; I’ve taught her well.
“Okay, go ahead and give Norquist my Mexican cell number. I’ll explain about the amnesia.”
“Amnesia?”
“Until this very minute, I had completely forgotten about that rental car. Must have been the shock. Now it’s suddenly all coming back to me.”
“Well, then, Miz Hetta, you’d best suddenly call Budget, for they are on the very verge of issuing an arrest warrant for your amnesiac self. And you would not like the inside of a Mexican jail. Plus, I will not be coming to get you out this time.”
“I’ll take care of it. I promise.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. Do you have, like, a contact number for Budget? My rental papers were sort of blow…burned up.”
“Along with your memory? Or could it have been a recurrence of your brain tumor.”
Jeez, that Jan has a big mouth. “Just give me the damned number.”
She did. I called, told them how, right after the car caught on fire, we were set upon by banditos who attacked me, hit me on the head, and I had been recovering ever since in a San Diego hospital. They agreed to charge the deductible to Jan’s burned up Master Card.
I plumb forgot to notify Jan of the charge.
That amnesia is a bitch.
In a surge of contrition, I set out to ameliorate the swath of crap I’d managed to leave in my wake the past couple of weeks.
I called Jenks, apologized for acting like a jerk and not listening to his advice. After all, I needed to stay at his apartment in Oakland. He graciously accepted my apology and our conversation ended on much friendlier terms than the last.
I’d already handled Budget.
After a visit to the Port Captain, I found I wasn’t in hot water with Captain Reyes, and that in fact he was basking in the light of being somewhat of a local celebrity after his interview on CNN International. I asked him to recommend a boat watcher and when he found out I was willing to pay two hundred a month, he jumped on the job himself. He was free on weekends and, if I gave him a maintenance checklist, he’d be more than happy to make sure she didn’t sink in her slip. I figured he didn’t make a lot of money, and that my contribution would be a huge addition to his Christmas budget.
Lucky for me, my own credit cards were in my boat safe, as was my debit card, so I was set for moola for the time being. I polished up and sent my final report to the Trob, and topped off Raymond Johnson’s tanks like Daddy always told me to do.
Now all I had to do was arrange to get myself back to the Bay Area. Almost everything I owned was on the boat, but I had left some go-to-meeting clothes at Jenks's apartment, where I would set up a working office. That meant I’d need my computer, printer, and fax machine. The list of stuff I had to haul was huge, prompting me to consider renting a car and driving back.
A couple of calls told me that Budget, as well as every other rental agency in Mexico, had me at the top of their S list, and I couldn’t quite picture driving the Thing all the way to the Bay Area, even if I could get it across the border with Mexican plates.
The solution came to me in a flash of red and yellow.
“Day-ache-elle!”
I stuck my head out the teak slider and was greeted by my old pals who’d brought me Trouble. I waved them on board and they headed straight for my replenished beer supply.
“So what is it today, guys? Got an elefante in your truck?”
One of them grinned and handed me an envelope, this one from the Trob. I quickly tore it open and saw a fat check attached to a disclaimer that Baxter Brothers was not responsible for my actions, and that by cashing said check, we were no longer affiliated. I also noted that for some strange reason, he gave me full invoice amount. Damn, I’d shorted myself if he agreed to all my demands.
I was free to head north, and I had a solution to my move at hand.
Two hours and a case of beer later, my clothes and office paraphernalia were packed into collapsible storage boxes I had stashed away, and loaded into the DHL van. I gave my stuff a fifty-fifty chance of arriving in Oakland, so I held on to my laptop, but it was the best I could come up with on short notice.
I was getting ready to call the airlines for a reservation on the next flight out when the phone rang in my hand.
“Hetta,” Jan wailed, “I need help.”
A friend in need is a pest.
Chapter 25
“What’s wrong, Jan?”
“I’ve broken up with Chino.”
“Did he do doo doo in his Huggie?”
“Just stop it, right now—”
“Okay, okay. Sorry.”
“You should be. I need help, and, after all, you got me into this mess.”
“I forced you to jump ship and take up with a beach bum?” Calling Chino a bum was pushing the envelope, but maybe that’s what she needed, a little negative reinforcement.
“There’s that, but what you really did was blow up my passport, Mexican visa, and credit cards. Now I’m stuck in Mexico and can’t get home.”
I didn’t bother to argue that it wasn’t me who blew up the rental, but a wild and crazy drug dealer, and we wouldn’t have been there in the first place if she wasn’t looking for Granny Yee. She wouldn’t listen anyhow. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to come get me. I can’t get on a plane or ferry without some kind of identification, and I don’t have a debit or credit card to buy the tickets anyhow.”
“You could ask Chino to reimburse you for his allowance, or maybe raid his piggy bank.”
“Het-ta, give it a rest.”
“Where are you?”
“The bus station in Santa Rosalia. I do have enough pesos for a room tonight, but that’s about it.”
“Seriously, Chino let you leave with no money and no way to get back to the States?”
“Well, I sort of didn’t tell him I was leaving. I left a note.”
“Did that note mention your age?”
“Just shut up and come get me.”
“I need to think. Call me back in thirty minutes. Do you still have minutes left on your Ladatel card?”
“Not much.”
“Okay, then, go down to the marina office at Santa Rosalia. I’ll call you there. If no one is around the office, find a ham operator on one of the boats. I’ll be on Happy Hour. Got that?”
“Oh, Hetta, bless you. I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to reach you, and…” she began to whimper.
“Jan, pull in that bottom lip and go to the marina. Everything will be okay, I promise. I think there’s an American Consulate in Hermosillo, but right now we have to get you over to this side. I have a plan.”
“You do? Fantastic, bye.”
“Bye.”
I needed a plan.
Double crappola. Here’s what my Google search told me about getting Jan legal:
In the event that your passport is lost or stolen while in Mexico please come in person to the Passport & Citizenship Unit (Working Hours). Depending on your personal circumstances, the Passport office will process your application for a new full-validity or emergency (limited-validity) passport. Application requirements, in
cluding fees, for emergency passports are the same as those for full-validity passports. You will need proof of citizenship and a photo ID, such as a driver’s license or school ID. The cost of the passport is $97 USD for adults and $82 USD for minors under age 16.
The Passport & Citizenship Office will only issue emergency passports that are needed for urgent travel. Applicants requesting an emergency passport will be required to provide proof of immediate travel plans such as a valid itinerary or airline tickets, as well as an explanation for why the travel plans cannot be changed to allow sufficient time for the processing of a full-validity passport (usually about two weeks). In most cases, same-day issuance is possible for emergency passports. However, some cases require approval from the Department of State prior to issuance.
Hello? Hetta to the US Passport and Citizenship Unit, who in the hell carries proof of citizenship when you have a passport, which is proof of citizenship?
Jan didn’t have proof of citizenship or a photo ID. We’d have to call her mother, have her send a certified copy of her birth certificate to her in San Carlos, call California for a duplicate driver’s license, and after all that finally arrives, apply for a passport.
I doubted the Department of State would deem breaking up with your boyfriend enough of an emergency to issue an emergency passport, so we could be stuck in Mexico for another month. Not that I would normally mind, but like I said, I felt the welcome mat down here was getting a mite frayed.
Maybe I should call my DHL guys. Hell, they shipped an illegal parrot, so what’s a blonde to them? Once DHL landed Jan in San Carlos, and I uncrated her, we could make a run for the border. My experience so far was that the Mexican military never asked to see our tourist visas at their inspection stations, or any other ID, for that matter. Once we made it to the US border, they definitely would require proof of citizenship, but if Jan started bawling and telling her sad tale of woe, they might let her in.
But back to the here and now.
I really, really, didn’t dare press my luck, and take Raymond Johnson across the sea alone again. I was wracking my already overloaded brain when the phone rang again.
Just Add Trouble Page 15